


but i know more than i did before

by andibeth82



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Clint Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Partnership, Protective Kate Bishop, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 3,940 miles back to New York. </p><p>3,940 miles to Clint Barton and his absolutely stupid, head-scratching mess of a life that she can’t let him face alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but i know more than i did before

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).



> Loosely prompted from [this tumblr post](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com/post/108580778864/lostemotion-clintbartoon-imagine-kate) and by **geckoholic** who insisted I should write it. Here's to you, darling.
> 
> Set after _Hawkeye 20_ , even though this probably won't exactly be what happens. But it's fun to dream.
> 
> (originally posted on Tumblr [here](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com/post/108660794190/you-should-totally-just-write-that-hawkeyes-hug).)

"It’s 3,940 miles from Los Angeles to New York," Kate says to Lucky as she puts on her sunglasses and merges onto the highway, and her companion replies with an unimpressed bark as he chews on the upholstery of the passenger seat. 3,940 miles to Brooklyn. 3,940 miles to the bridge and stale coffee and oversized bagels with too much goopy cream cheese.

3,940 miles to Clint Barton and his absolutely stupid, head-scratching mess of a life that she can’t let him face alone.

Barney had called her at a rest stop somewhere between LA and Nevada and whispered something along the lines of  _hearing loss_  and  _deaf_ , in a way that made Kate wonder just how much Clint could still read lips if he was  _whispering,_  if his brother was now fucking  _deaf_. Kate had sipped her lukewarm coffee and held her composure until Barney hung up his end of the line; she was good like that, Kate Bishop, the rich kid’s daughter who could process bad news while holding a poker face and eating caviar and celery sticks and oysters. Kate Bishop, hero for hire, Hawkeye (not the  _other_  Hawkeye), who could absolutely deal with the fact that her partner and best friend had been attacked, left for dead, and mentally compromised. Under the brightness of the desert stars that remind her of everything New York doesn’t offer, she curls up in the backseat with Lucky and holds onto his neck, reveling in the feeling of his tongue on her cheek and his nonjudgmental hand nuzzles before she rubs her tears dry on his fur and climbs back into the driver’s seat.

She blasts Madonna and Queen and Oasis as she rolls into Utah, stopping at a used bookstore in between towns with too little population and too many Mexican-inspired rooftops.  _Basic Course in American Sign Language_  looks more beat-up than its $10 price suggests, shoved into one of the back corners where the shelves are overstocked, but she haggles what she can out of the cashier before returning to her car and settling down with her legs up on the dashboard. Kate Bishop, private investigator, who had scoffed at all the lessons her parents tried to give her when she was young, who was now voluntarily figuring out how to sign the alphabet with shaky fingers. Kate Bishop, who finally cares about her life because of her fucking shitshow of a partner that she loves too much abandon.

(She learns his name first, then her own, and then Lucky’s for good measure, makes herself laugh out loud when she thinks about all the ways she can torture him once she figures out  _Bobbi_  and  _Jess_  and  _Nat_.)

In Oklahoma, she grabs a coffee from the roadside diner and shoplifts  _The American Sign Language Phrase Book_  from a sleepy-looking Barnes and Noble, stretches out in a deserted park letting Lucky sleep at her feet while she learns things like  _apple_  and  _home_  and  _arrow_  and  _bow_ , and for all of the dog’s disinterest in her new hobby, he seems to actually respond to her shoving her hand in front of his eyes after finally figuring out how to appropriately sign  _do you like pizza?_

In Missouri, she stops at a library and sweet-talks the woman at the reference desk into using their DVD player (she rewinds so much that she almost breaks the remote.) By Kentucky, she’s all but bulldozed through both books, the pages of each torn and stained from where she’s fallen asleep and spilled her coffee. By Pennsylvania, she’s running on 48 hours of no sleep, and by New Jersey, she’s spent the last several hours with the air conditioner on high, mainlining Red Bull to keep herself alert.

She lets herself into the apartment building via the key that she’s never given up and allows Lucky reacquaint herself with his surroundings before going to the roof, opening the door to meet his hunched over form, which is silhouetted against the oncoming evening. There’s a beer in his hand and there are no socks on his feet, and he turns around as she opens her mouth.

And, well.

It’s been three months and she feels like she has _so much to say_ , but any pre-formed words die in her throat when she notices how he looks the same and also not the same in a way that’s classically Clint Barton. There are scrapes and bruises on his face and on his arms and his hair is messy and his shirt  _really_  needs to be washed and his jeans have seen better days, and he’s raising both hands and gesturing to his ears and Kate bites down instinctively on the scream she knows he won’t hear.

_I know. Your idiot brother called me._

And Kate thinks if she could freeze time, she would absolutely choose the moment Clint Barton’s face changed from confused to shocked.

 _When did you learn to sign?_ His fingers are flying faster than she’s ever seen them, but she catches enough to know what he’s asking.

_You fucking scared me to death!_

_I didn’t even know there was actual sign language for the word “fucking.”_

_Buy a dictionary, you moron. I just drove cross-country to save your beat-up ass and you’re sitting here drinking a beer._

_Sorry?_ Clint looks slightly chagrined as she drops her hands.

Sorry.  _Fuck sorry_ , Kate thinks, stepping forward and slamming her fist into his arm, which in turn causes Clint to let out a sharp yelp.

“What the hell was that for?!”

And Kate Bishop realizes she hasn’t heard Clint Barton’s voice in  _three months_.

“You’re an idiot,” she replies before she grabs onto his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of his body as it presses into her skin. Clint laughs, a low-throated sound that screams the word  _home_ , and he tightens his grip on her arms.

“Missed you too, Katie-Kate.” 


End file.
